Reborn
by E.M.K.81
Summary: Summary: After escaping from the Orient, Erik wanders through Europe, alone, lost, without any purpose in life. An illness forces him to rejoin human society in the desperate fight to survive. Told from Erik's point of view.
1. Chapter 1

**Reborn**

 _Summary: After escaping from the Orient, Erik wanders through Europe, alone, lost, without any purpose in life. An illness forces him to rejoin human society in the desperate fight to survive. Told from Erik's point of view._

 _Walking Dead_

I was not even thirty years old. Not even thirty and I had seen more countries, learned more and endured more adventures than almost everyone else. I survived against all odds and found myself in Europe and completely alone. I was alone and understood now what the ancient Greeks meant when they described someone to be hunted by _Erinyes._ I cannot count the nightmares I had to endure, the terror whenever I felt like someone was following me. An assasin send by the Shah or the Sultan? Someone seeking blood vengeance?

The worst was that I felt like my life was over anyways. I had absolutely no purpose. Everything seemed to be pointless. I was alive. But what for? Why was I still alive? I had been so afraid of death that I had not even asked why I tried to survive, I just did and now that I was far away from Persia, from Turkey and asked myself what for? The good Daroga who saved my life in Persia. He most likely paid for this with his own life. His sacrifice - what for? Why? The men who died so I could escape the Sultan. What for?

I was alone. I had no one and nothing. Men my age ought to be young, having a wife and a family, trying to build up something. I had already erected a palace for the Shah of Persia and done the same for the Sultan. What did I get for my efford? They tried to kill me and many nightmares that will most likely torment me until I die. I survived, and if it was only to defy them.

But life is no adventure-book. If I was the hero of a book, the book would end now, telling I found a wife and settled down and lived happily ever after. Save guess that I am no hero, if anything one would picture me as the villain, just one look at my deformed features and it is obvious that I have to be the bad guy. After what I did in Persia and repeated the same in Turkey, I can no longer tell them they are wrong. If someone accuses me to be a monster, I ought to lower my eyes in shame for they are right. Not that I would ever do that, but if I were a villain in a book I would get the punishment for my sins in the end.

No one and nothing prepared me for surviving. I was lost and did not know what to do now. Briefly I considered going back to where I came from,the circus. But I could not. I could not endure the humiliation of being stared at. I had wrestled my way from the travelling sideshow-freak to a powerful position and rank at the Persian court, fallen from grace - even if I cannot say that it was not my fault at least partly - and earned another powerful and well-respected position in Turkey.

The higher you climb, the farther you fall. Unfortunately this is the truth. I climbed very high and hit rock bottom again. Now I was just another vagrant living in the streets again, never able to stay anywhere for more than a few days. In a weird way I sank far deeper than before, for as a child I had earned my keep through work, at least mostly. Now I did not even think about doing any work at all, neither as street performer nor did I try to find a job. I don't know why, maybe some circus would have hired me as a magician, some theater as répétiteur, some building enterprize as bricklayer. It was my pride that absolutely forbid me to even ask for such a job. I knew that I could no longer endure being just a slave after I had experienced what it was like to be a master, to be the éminence grise, to have kings do as I told them just because I knew how to make them bow to my will like I knew how to play an instrument.

Funny enough my pride did allow me to live as a thievish vagabond, preying upon everyone who had the bad luck to be in my way or have something in his possession I needed or just desired. Unfortunately the wandering didn't help me, it made everything worse. Wherever I came, I was shunned and driven away. Small wonder, I was just a filthy unwashed vagrant, dressed in a long coachman's cloak, an old hat and a mask made of grey fabric. What little I had, I carried with me, and that was certainly nothing to calm anyone who saw me. I had a large walking stick, it was almost 1,5m long and attatched to it was axe head. A formidable weapon, but if the police asked me I had it with me because I wanted to work as woodcutter. They didn't know that I was armed with more weapons: a lasso made from catgut, two knives and a gun. Exept my weapons I had litte to carry with me. In my bag was only a warm blanket and a bottle with water and sometimes some food. If someone called me a beggar, he was right. I was as poor as any other beggar but my pride outshun even the Shah and the Sultan.

I guess to the local authorities I was just another crazy vagrant who had damaged his brain with too much cheap alcohol. They mostly ignored me as long as I did not try to stay anywhere. I did carry several identity papers with me, papers I had stolen and forged to my best ability. Sometimes it was difficult to remember the right name when I handed someone my passport to prove my identity.

So I came to Belgium. I do not know why I was on my way North-West. Maybe I subconsciously wanted to go to France, maybe it was pure coincidence. Maybe I was just trying to avoid being taken to a workhouse. I was able-bodied and would therefore be enslaved and exploited and they would justify it that they would try to reform the workshy wretch and make him a valuable member of society - what was, at least as I saw it back then, yet another euphemism for a slave.

I was in a bad shape. For days I suffered terrible pain in my stomach and felt tired, dizzy and suffered headache. This would not have surprised me had I been on a binge for days, I cannot deny that I did sometimes, but not then. I had been sober for weeks, mostly at least. Nothing that would cause such a hangover.

I hoped that a good night's sleep would help me and found shelter in some shack, hiding in the hay. I slept much longer than intended and woke to the paniced shriek of a girl. A few meters before me was a girl, about seven years old, a pitchfork in her hands. I remember that I groaned in frustration. I was weary of that scene I had seen far too often in my life. Looking around I found my mask lying beside my hat. I put it on and pushed myself up, I ought to be quick now before the rest of the peasants would come with pitchforks. But I could not bring myself to move quickly, I was too tired. I was so tired I even considered lying down again and allowing them to finish me. If it was them or anyone else or just exhaustion and despair to kill me, I did no longer care. I took off the mask and lied back, waiting for the inevitable to happen.

But nothing happened. No one came. The girl stood there, aiming at me with the pitchfork. I have to admit that I admired her courage. There was a small girl ready to defend herself against me. Maybe she wanted to kill me. What a ridiculous end for the Sultana's champion, the undefeatable Azrael, the angel of death. To die at the hands of a small girl with a dirty pitchfork.

"Why do you laugh?" the girl asked. Had I really laughed? I could not recall laughing. I really did not remember it. "Do you want to steal our hay? Are you one of the tieves?" She did not sound scared, she rather sounded like she was about to kill me for stealing her precious hay.

"No... I never steal hay..." My demented laughing fit must have finally convinced her that she was dealing with a complete madman, that I was still lying in the hay and made absolutely no attempt to leave or to attack her seemed to convince her that I was harmless. Another harmless drunkenard who slept in their shack- except for my face that I did not even bother to cover. I must have been really suicidal that time.

Her cry had alerted someone. Two other women arrived, one obviously the mother, the other one smaller, maybe an elder sister of the blonde scrawny girl? She screamed even more and pulled her girls back, away from me. I just closed my eyes and lay back.

The next thing I remember is a group of policemen standing around me, one poking at me with a stick. I moved, trying to defend myself but my movements were sluggish and my vision blurred. I felt terribly thisty. "Water..." I croaked and the policemen jumped back with panicked screams. Their screams were even louder than that of the girl. And they, other than the small girl, left the shack in a hurry. What a pity. I was really disappointed that they did not kill me.

I could hear them talking outside, in terrible panic discussing what I was. One man was sick, I could clearly hear him retching. This time I pushed myself to my feet, leaning heavily on my stick. I felt lightheaded, everything seemed to move around me as if I was on a ship in a storm and not on solid ground. I was dizzy, disoriented, I felt like I was drunk, really drunk, but I wasn't. I had not had any alcohol for at least a week for I did not dare drink with stomachache for fear to make it worse.

When I left the shack I saw the policemen standing in a group, debating who or what I was. I needed to support myself with my walking stick with one hand and held onto the boards of the entrance opening to the shack. Everything seemed to spin around me, I felt like I was walking down a wall and right before me was bottomless hole in the ground. My eyes told me I was walking on solid ground, my equilibrioception said I was somehow standing with my feet at the wall.

"Get back! Get back!" a policeman shouted at me. He did not draw his weapon. Obviously this was a very peaceful city where policemen weren't used to make use of their weapons.

I did not. I cannot say why, I needed to concentrate on remaining on my feet. I didn't think about my mask or my hat, the blanket and my bag. I just saw the well with the hand operated pump and the wooden trough. I was so very thisty, I needed water... just some water. My movement was extremely slow, uncoordinated. I just dragged myself to the well - unaware that I had to pass the group of policemen. The moved back to get out of my way, pushing each other ot of their way. I have to admit that I must have been a terrible sight. I was filthy not having had any chance to wash in weeks, no chance to change my clothes in months. I was uncovered, I was told later that the dirt on my face made it look like the decaying flesh was already coming off in pieces. It was dried mud on my face, I guess, from sleeping somewhere in the fields. My matted hair was full of dirt, hay and lice and fell down over my shoulders. Yes, I had lice that time like most vagrants did, and I had not cut or combed my hair in years and not washed in months. As I dragged my exhausted body towards the well, my mouth hanging slightly open, the policemen really must have thought they were dealing with a decaying dead body that was somehow still walking around. I admit that it must have been terrible for them to see me like this, the effect heightened by the stench and the dirt so I really looked like some corpse that had dragged itself from its grave after decomposing for some months.

I collapsed at the well, somehow pulled myself up so my head rested against the wooden through. It was empty except for some old brown rest of water. I used my right hand to hold onto the wood and my left to try to get some water in my dry mouth. It tasted bitter, so bitter I could not swallow the few drops. I could not get up to operate the pump. All I could do was sitting there, staring at the pump. "Water, please, water..." I begged, but the men were too afraid of me to come close enough to give me some water. Didn't they see that I was too weak to be dangerous? The small girl could have easily killed me, I would not have been able to defend myself.

The faucet seemed to come alive and a sprinkle of cold, clean and sweet water splashed into the wooden through. I remember smiling faintely and reaching down for water, but it ran through my fingers, I could not get it to my mouth and I could not push myself up enough to bring my head down into the water. Another splash of water, then a metal dog bowl appeared before my face. It was the two girls, the older one operating the pump, the younger one using the bowl to catch some of the water and she even dared to hold it out to me, but I could see the fear in her eyes. "I won't bite," I promised.

The woman helped me turn round so I sat with my back against the wooden through as the girl helped me to drink from the bowl.

I do not recall how long I sat there. Eventually a carriage arrived, maybe they had been called by the police. Several men approached me with terrible curiosity. "I have never seen such thing," one said, "Never. He... seems to live."

"Is it contagious?"

"If we don't know what it is, we can't take any chances. We need to put him in solitary confinement in the hospital to keep this... whatever it is... from spreading."

Some men dragged me none too gently onto a filthy cart, covered me with some blankets and even put hay over that blanket to hide me. I do not know why, maybe they wanted to keep my presence a secret. They did well to do so - the news that a living, walking corpse was in the city was likely to cause mass panic. I was lucky to be in the hands of medical doctors now who wanted to study me and not in the hands of some superstitious fools who might just have burned me to death to prevent me from spreading any illness.

What happened after that I cannot really recall and what I do recall I am not sure if it is a real memory or just one of my nightmares. I was thrown in some room with a hole in the ground. The room was tiled and obviously the hole in the ground was some sort of plughole. Rough hands stripped me of my clothing, someone poured several buckets of soapy water over my shivering body and they scrubbed me with brooms so they didn't have to come close to me. I tried to protest, but was immediately pressed down to the slippery cold floor. Someone grabbed my hair and began shaving my head.

My next memory is rather pleasant. I was lying in a bed, in clean sheets for the first time in months feeling clean and comfortable. I was so very tired I did not even try to get up and closed my eyes again.

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 _This chapter is called "Walking Dead" for it actually was that TV series that inspired it. I wanted to write a scene where people are confronted with Erik who is walking like a zombie (of course nearly no one knew that word in 19th century Europe) and people being scared of him. Of course they are, even if they do not know about zombies, a corpse walking around with uncoordinated sluggish movements is guaranteed to scare everyone. Poor Erik is just ill._

 _Unlike Susan Kay I assume that it is likely that Erik escaped from Persia and Turkey with his life, but he had no chance to take anything with him. So when he comes back to Europe, he has nothing but the clothes he wears (and they are most likely stolen). He has nothing, but does not want to be a street performer again._

 _Please review!_

 _So... now I have three fanfics "under construction": Reborn, Pug of the Opera, If Love Were a Flower._


	2. Chapter 2

**Reborn**

 _Hospital_

I woke lying on the bed, stark naked, completely exposed and several doctors standing around me. Their hands were everywhere, examining me, telling some secretary who was obviously outside the small room to note some things.

"Unknown patient. Male. Age unknown. Average hight. Deformed. Scars on arms, legs and torso from various fights. Scars from lashing on the back. No nose, but but the nasal bone is there."

He grabbed my jaw and forced me to open my mouth. "Teeth in bad shape and some missing," he went on, "The fever is rather high, we have to cool him down." He pinched the skin at my arm. "Deydrated. He is to drink lots of lukewarm broth and water, do you agree?"

"We still do not know what caused this," another doctor warned him.

"Broth can't be bad if one is dehydrated."

That moment I felt my stomach churn and tried to turn round. I could not push myself up but I turned half to the side as the retching began. The doctors stood there, watching with great interest. I do not think watching me vomit, making a mess on the bed and the floor, was in any way helpful to whatever they were trying to do, but they watched as if they could see the future in whatever I produced.

"I say it is just Typoid fever," an elderly doctor said, "All the symptoms are there, even the emaciated body and the dehydration is easily explained by that illness, as is the pitiful state of mind he's in. Patients suffering Typhoid fever often suffer hallucinations due to the fever and the dehydration."

"Impossible! Did you see his skin? The color of his eyes? The complete lack of a nose?"

"Could be an accident. The color of his skin could just be a symptom of a problem with his liver. He's just some street vagrant, most likely a drunkard, it fits perfectly."

"Lack of nose? These uncanny yellow eyes?"

"An accident? We do not know if he can see. He might be blind."

I wanted to tell them. I tried to, but all I could manage was a weak moan.

They left the cleaning-up to some helper. The man did clean up, helped me wash - and beat me with a whip to punish me for causing so much trouble. I could not do anything but lying there, enduring it.

The next day the same humiliating examination. A doctor felt obligued to note the measurements of my most private parts, calling them "normal" and "average". This caused a hysterical laughing fit from me that was only stopped by violent retching. They had forced me to swallow lots of cold broth, trying to counter the dehydration, if I wanted that or not. The nurses knew how to force-feed me if I tried to resist. If I could not keep down enough I had to endure the torture again.

"Are you still convinced that he has Typoid fever?" one asked, "Why didn't he have any diarrhoea? He can't get out of the bed, he can't hide that."

"How do you expect him to have diarrhoea if all he gets is broth and he can't keep down two-third of it?"

"Let us try feeding him something else."

Thus began the next torture. The nurses had to feed me with some sort of tasteless grey stuff, oatmeal gruel. They put in some salt since the doctors knew people suffering vomiting and diarrhoea would have better chances to survive if the got salt and water.

The nurses warned me that if I would make a mess again they would not only beat me up but would put corks in my rectum and my mouth to stop that. I do not know if they would really have done that for it would kill me, I would die choking to death on my own vomit. A horrible way to die.

But I was far too weak to get out of the bed in time, unfortunately my sleep was so heavy I am not sure if I was sleeping or if that was some kind of unconsciousness. And I am not absolutely sure the things I recall did actually happen. It is possible, but maybe some of it was just another nightmare. That is exactly why I never did anything to take revenge for the abuse I suffered at the nurses hands - I do not want an innocent man who just helped me to suffer because I had a bad dream.

For that too happened - without the care I received I would not have survived. As painful as it was - the force-feeding and the cold baths saved my life. As humiliationg as it was to lie in my own filth for hours since I was completely ignored after the early afternoon feeding and the next morning and was helplessly confined to bed, unable to do anything and too weak to even cry for help - or maybe to scared of the next bath for they still used the brooms to scrub me - to do so.

Eventually the gruel had the desired effect. "Told you so!" the old doctor exclaimed, pointing to the stinking mess on the sheets, "Told you so! Clearly Typhoid fever!"

"But his face..."

"I've... born like this..." It was the first words I managed to say to them. They all stared at me.

"Born like this? With leprosy? Syphilis? What is this?"

"Don't know," I admitted. For the first time they seemed to react to me like I was a human being and not a dumb animal.

And lost all interest in me. I was no patient with some unknown disease they could use to publish in books making a name for themselves. Since all I suffered was ordinary Typhoid fever, they decided they would treat me - throwing me out would cause my death and maybe some epidemic for that illness is contagious. The treatment consisted of further isolation, more broth, trying to lower the fever with cold baths. I do not know how many weeks I was in that room until I finally began to regain strength. I was able to leave the bed to use the chair with bucket. The room was small, not more than five squaremeters. A bed, a chair with bucket, that was all there was. A window showing the graveyard close to the hospital. What a nice idea to put a patient with an unknown most likely fatal illness into a cold storeroom with a wonderful view of the graveyard where he can get used to being dead. A vagrant suffering Typhoid fever due to a horrible lack of hygiene was nothing any doctor found interesting enough to care about. But I am grateful they kept me there and didn't just let me die because they must have known I had no money to pay for the weeks in that hospital.

As I grew stronger I was visited by the doctor who informed me that I might be released from the hospital under certain conditions. He sat at my bed to give me a lecture about Typhoid fever and that it was spread through a patients excrements and urine.

"So you must never ever relief yourself close to any water, be it a well, a river or whatever!"

"Unfortunately they forgot to build privys in the woods," I answered dryly, making him laugh.

"After your recovery you will still carry the disease for at least two years, maybe even for the rest of your life. I tell you how to avoid spreading it for Typhoid fever is a deadly disease with a death rate of about 40%, more in children and old or already weakened people. It is essential that you follow my instructions or I have to ask the police to lock you up to protect people from an epidemic."

"I did nothing wrong!" It was a lame protest. I just did not want to spend the rest of my life in a prison cell.

He sighed. "If we can't stop you from spreading the epidemic through carelessness we have to lock you up. So - what is it? Will you listen to my instructions?" I just nodded in agreement.

"You must never ever accept a job where you might touch food, such as cook, waiter, manservant, baker, greengrocer or anything like that."

"I never had any ambitions in that." It was true. Why would I even want such a job? "But is my touch deadly? Do I have to stay away from anyone?"

He laughed. "No, not your touch. We doctors touched you, the nurses did and no one caught that illness. Hygiene is the key. Your excrements and urine are the bodily fluids that carry the disease. If you manage to keep your hands clean, use soap and lots of water to wash your hands after going to the toilet, it won't be such a problem."

"You mean I could kill someone just by not washing my hands? What about the girls in that farmstead?" I was worried I might have already doomed them unknowingly.

"They are well. But it was close, they were just lucky. But you cannot always count on your luck! You must never use a privy that is too close to a well."

"If I pee into a well I can wipe out a village, is that what you are trying to tell me?" I was excited, really excited and almost laughed about that. I was a bringer of death and fate had provided me with a deadly weapon I could use at my whim whenever I wanted to - and without anyone ever finding out it had been me. I could kill like the plague, being no longer affected by the disease I carried in me. This gave me a terrible joy I could barely hide.

The doctor mistook it for worry. Funny, most people can't tell the difference if I am laughing or crying, to almost everyone it seems to be the same. Maybe that is because no one ever taught me - laughing is like crying just letting off steam to prevent an explosion. There is not much difference in happiness or sadness. Only my false laughter I designed to scare people is something everyone immediately recognizes as laughter.

"If you follow my instructions you can live a normal life without endangering anyone," the doctor told me, "Hygiene is the key. You have to keep yourself clean and never prepare uncooked food for another person. If you cook something, it is no problem. You can serve tea. You can shake hands - if you wash your hands with soap each time after you use the toilet. Wash your clothes regulary."

"Hygiene," I echoed. The one thing that was really extremely difficult to keep as a vagrant.

The doctor must have guessed my thoughts. "You can't go on living as a beggar on the streets - if not for your own sake then to prevent a Typhoid fever epidemic wherever you go. You just have to."

"And how am I to do this?" My desperation was far too obvious now. "How?" I gestured to my face. "How can I live a normal life with this face? Everyone who sees me screams and runs in terror and that won't change."

"A prostetic nose would help," he informed me, "A paper-mache nose and maybe a false beard to cover the mouth. Try to clean your teeth with ashes. That would make your look acceptable."

I wanted to embrace him and cry with happiness at this. There was a man who offered to help me, to really help me! I do not know how many times I said "thank you". He just left, leaving me crying with happiness.

The motives of the authorities of that city to help me were certainly not ulterior, they just had to prevent the contagious disease from spreading and if they helped me to find a job and earn my keep it would be by far cheaper than if they had to lock me up and feed me for the rest of my natural life. But they were ready to help me. The doctor explained to me how I could make a paper-mache nose and a false moustache. I needed to be able to do this myself for paper-mache is not very durable. For me this was the first step to a new life and I suddenly was very eager to learn whatever the doctor was ready to teach me.

My next visitor was the magistrate. He had ordered the policemen to pack all my belongings, had them searched, the clothing burned and the rest cleaned. He informed me that they would give me some clothing, they did not want me to have to leave the hospital stark naked. And he would find a job for me, something I would be able to do despite my weakened state that would not allow manual labor for several weeks.

"We found papers with seventeen different names. You are not on the list of wanted men, I guess someone with your face can't be mistaken for someone else, but why the many false names? Who are you? How old are you?"

I decided to tell him the truth. "I am an achitect. I build a palace for the Shah of Persia and he liked it so much, he decided no one in the worl should have a building to rival his - so he ordered me to be beheaded. As ugly as my head is, I prefer it to be on my shoulders. I had to flee to save my life. I managed to go to Turkey, where I again succumbed to my vanity and offered my services to the Sultan. I designed many things for him and he turned out to be as ungrateful as the Shah was, he too wanted me dead. Again I had to run and came to Europe, trying to escape whatever assassins they sent to kill me. That is the reason for the many different names I use, I can't risk to leave a trail they could follow." I watched him from my position. I was sitting on my bed, leaning back against the pillows to support me. I was still too weak to sit up on my own for a longer time. Now that I was able to use the chair with bucket I was allowed to wear a long nightshirt. It was good to be dressed again. I had a warm blanket to cover me and that was drawn up to my breast, my arms and shoulders were free to move.

The magistrate sat at a chair next to my bed with a notebook and a pencil in his hands. He stared at me as if he was thinking about what I had told him. It was the truth and nothing but the truth, but suddenly I saw an amused sparkle in his eyes and he laughed out loudly. "That's the most audacious unbelievable tall story I was told in my life! You ought to write an adventure novel, lad, you have a fertile imagination. O my. Escaping the Orient to flee to Europe. Ha. That is an original idea. In most novels the adventurer flees from Europe to go to the Orient seeking his fortune."

"But it is the truth!" I protested, angered that he didn't believe me.

He became serious again, this time staring at me angrily. "Do not push your luck!" he warned me, "I know that you are lying. You are no architect. You never studied at any university. You never build any house, much less a palace."

I stared at him. Why was he so convinced that I was lying?

"Except in your dreams, I give you that, lad. You are a minor."

"I am not! I am... twentyseven or twentyeight, I do not know for sure..."

"No you aren't. The doctor said your wisdom teeth are not yet coming through, this means you are not twentyone, the doctor thinks you are about eighteen or nineteen, this makes you a ward of the city if you do not have a gardian. I highly suspect you have none or we wouldn't have found you in the state you were in."

That left me speechless. I just had no idea what to say. He did not believe the truth and had already decided that I was a minor. Later I learned that this was for my own good for as a ward of the city they could not just put me away in some workhouse and leave it to me to find some job, they had to give me to someone as an apprentice, to give me a chance to learn the necessary skills to support myself. After what the doctor had told me they wouldn't have sent me to the workhouse or the prison anyways, fearing that I would cause a Typhoid fever epidemic in the cramped and unhygienic place.

I never got withdom teeth. I guess I was born without them as I was born without a nose.

I tried to figure out what he wanted to hear. He did not believe the truth, so what would he believe? I thought that he assumed he already knew the truth. He just wanted to hear a lie that would confirm what he already knew. If I managed to come up with such a lie he would believe me - and this would be my chance.

So I drew my knees to my chest, curling up in this stitting position, lowering my head in shame, trying to look defeated. "You are right," I said, making my voice sound weaker than I was. "I am just a street urchin. My family hated me for being a freak and I was beaten so badly I ran away. A travelling circus took me in as a sideshow freak. When I was not put on display I did all kinds of work, whatever they told me to do. I learned many crafts, I even played music for some shows."

"There was no travelling fair in this part of the country," he informed me, "Not in the last two years."

I shrugged. "I left the travelling fair. I do not want to spend my life as one of the travelling people. I want a normal life, a normal job."

He gave me a sympathetic look. "Life is very hard as a sideshow-freak, isn't it? Always on the move, to live from hand to mouth and I suspect the travelling people aren't really honest, are they?"

I pressed my face against my knees, giving the impression I was crying, and mumbled: "No. I am not proud of what I had to do to survive."

I felt his hand gently patting my shoulder like a generous guardian would do to a naughty child that was showing genuine remorse and begged forgiveness. "You are lucky that you survived the Typhoid fever. Don't worry, I'll help you. A friend of mine has a construction enterprize, I will ask him if he needs an apprentice. You..." as I glanced up I could see his pityingly glance, "...are in no condition for manual labor. But maybe he needs an office boy and if you are willing and have talent you can even become a technical drafter. Would you like that?"

It was one of the hardest performances to feign gratitude now. I felt humiliated and belittled but I had to stay in my role as the poor boy happy that someone offers to pick him up from the gutter. I thanked him politely, shyly, trying to give the impression that I was overjoyed and didn't know how to express it. I was still too weak and would need at least two weeks before I would be able to move on. But I was grateful. This men - the doctor, the magistrate - they really tried to help me despite my deformity. They treated me like a human being and that was enough to encourage me to give it a try. To accept whatever they gave me.

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 _Thank you for reading and please lieave me a review._


	3. Chapter 3

**Reborn**

 _A New Life_

The doctor kept his word. He taught me how to make a nose from paper-mache and a false beard. He taught me how to use wax and wool to glue the false nose and the beard to my face. I would not be able to eat or drink with that on, I would not be able to do hard labor and he warned me that I ought to stay out of the sun especially in summer because heat would cause the nose and beard to fall off. He handed me a mirror to show the result.

To say that I was disappointed would be an understatement. The face I saw was still terribly ugly. My hair was short after it had been shaved to get rid of the lice, the color of the nose didn't really match the sickly color of my skin. I had lost much weight and was even more emaciated than ever, my eyes sunken in much deeper. Any corpse looked healthier than I did. Even with a nose I was horribly ugly.

"You will put on weight. That will improve your look."

"No. It won't. I have always looked like a corpse, no matter how much I eat or if I am healthy or not. I'm afraid your care - for which I am really grateful - is in vain."

He smiled sadly. "Take off the prostetic nose and look in the mirror, then put it on again. Use the mirror and take as much time as you need. You will always be ugly, I won't lie about that, but at least you no longer look like a freak. You look like an ugly man. That is an improvement."

During the next days I worked hard to learn how to make my look endurable and to my own surprise I had to admit that the doctor was right. I was still ugly, people would still stare and mock me, call me names, but they would not run screaming in terror at the first glimpse of my face.

It was an improvement of sorts. The magistrate came back to inform me that my name was Erik Thorsson and I was of Swedish heritage. I stared at him unkomprehendingly. "How do you know?" I asked, my surprise was genuine. I have never been in Sweden, knew nothing of that country and I knew perfectly well that my name was not Erik Thorsson. To tell the truth, I knew precisely what my name and birthday was, but I refused to use that name to protect my family from being connected with me. I could not do that to them.

The magistrate grinned, pleased with himself at his obviously perfect research work. "It was tricky," he admitted, "I had nothing but your looks and age. A Swedish girl named Thorsson came to Ostende to find her lover, a sailor. She had not known that he was already married. She had a son, Erik Thorsson, she had to surrender him to public welfare because she could not care for him. He was given to a fisherman who took in foster children. It must have been quite a scandal when it was discovered that Erik Thorsson had vanished because the fisherman had been paid to keep the boy. The fisherman confessed that the boy had gone missing, it was suspected that the boy died when the fisherman tried to teach him fishing and that the poor family had kept silent because they needed the extra payment for the boy."

"Why do you think I am Erik Thorsson?" I asked again. I knew I wasn't.

"Because in all the papers it reads "facial deformity" without any detailed description. I wrote to the fisherman. He replied that he is so happy to learn that you are alife and well and confirmed that the description I sent him matches Erik Thorsson. He is on his way to visit."

Now that was a problem. I was not Erik Thorsson and he would immediately know that. I was given some clothing, a normal suit and shoes, and led to a room where the magistrate introduced me to the fisherman who was supposed to be my foster father. I did not wear my prostetic nose but covered my face with a mask made of old linnen. I was ordered to take it of and the fisherman reacted as I had suspected - with a terrible scream. He covered his mouth with his hand and shook his head, his eyes wide with fear. I am sure he knew immediately that I was certainly not the missing boy.

What he did then surprised me. He came to me, took my arms in his hands and exclaimed: "That is him! That is my poor Erik Thorsson! I told you we didn't murder him! For twelve years we were suspected to ave killed the boy out of despicible greed, but here he is - we are rehabilitated!"

I understood what he was doing. The real Erik Thorsson was dead and he knew it - but he wanted to rehabilitate himself in the eyes of his peers by presenting to them a living Erik Thorsson. And this was my chance to whipe out the last ten years of my life. To pretend whatever I did in Persia and Turkey had never happened. All I had to do was playing his game. "I'm sorry I ran away," I told him.

He was taken aback, it took a very long time for him to recover. He filled in what the magistrate did not know - that I was eighteen years old and had run away. That he wanted to teach me fishing so I could help with his work but I had no talent for that. We both knew that this was a shameless lie, but we both knew we had to keep up the lie to protect ourselves. When we were given a brief time in private to reconciliate he confessed to me that the boy was dead, he had fallen out of the boat when he was only three years old and already forced to help his foster father with the hard work. They had pretended the boy was alife to get the montly financial help from the city for three years. Then the boy ought to go to school and it was discovered that he was missing. The real Erik Thorsson just had a harelip and looked nothing like me, but maybe he recognized me as a fellow fraudster, maybe it was some weird kind of honor among thieves, in the end we agreed that I was Erik Thorsson. I would get help from the city, he would get the money that he had to pay back after he was suspected to have killed the boy. It was a lot of money for a poor fisherman. We just agreed to keep our secret and trusted each other to keep that promise because neither one could tell the truth without confessing the cheat.

My new life was based on a shameless lie, but everyone, especially the magistrate who boasted with his perfect research, his exemlary police work, believed it. People believe every lie if you tell it the right way, if you tell them what they think they already know. This is the trick most fraudsters use and so did I. I got papers with the name and date of birth of the real Erik Thorsson. I was eighteen now officially, in truth I was about ten years older. I as given to the contractor as an office boy to be trained as technical drafter. The city even tried to find a new foster family for me. I was eighteen, but I would be considered an adult when I would be twentyone.

I was introduced to the contractor. His name was Roman Ferre. He was a tall man with thick glasses. When he looked up at me as I stood there with my hands clasped behind my back, I noticed that his face was not perfect. He concealed his under his large moustache, but the lips were perfectly normal on the left side and looked swollen at the right. They were trice as large as normal lips at the right corner of his mouth, it looked as if he had a small ball in his lips and it was even heightened by his smile.

"Erik Thorsson?" He asked and I nodded, standing with my hands clasped behind my back. He got up and walked around me, examining me as if I was a horse he wanted to buy. "I do not like this. I don't take in apprentices as technical drafters or secretaries. And you are by far too weak for working on the building site, I need strong men there. I am giving you a chance because I owe my friend a favor. I give you one months. You will not receive payment. You can sleep in the room in the office where you will work. You will share the table with my family. And after that one months I will decide if I keep you in my employ or not."

I had to accept. He was offering me a place to stay, and if my bed was only a worn couch in corner of the office, and food. Being an apprentice I was grateful that he did not demand payment for educating me. It was a hard decision to accept his invitation to share his table because that meant I had to take off the nose and cover myself with a mask that allowed me to eat. Monsieur Ferre wanted to see my face. I tried to refuse and he threatened to throw me out - which would force me to go back to my life as a street vagrant for I did not have any illusions when it came to how many chances I would get in the future. This was the one chance in my life to start anew, to wipe out my past as if it had never happened.

He took my face with a calm acceptance. Obviously someone had informed him of this. But he admitted that it might not be the best idea if I sat at his table. His wife would allow me to eat in the kitchen.

"I have to decline that generous offer," I replied, "I just recovered from Typhoid fever. I must not be close to anything somenone else will eat. At least for now, that was the doctor's instructions. If I was allowed to eat in the office, I would prefer that."

He had a large house. In the basement was his office containing a salon designed for meeting with clients, several rooms as offices for secretary and technical drawer, his study, a bathroom and an indoor-toilet. That house had gaslight and a stove in each room. It was rather comfortable and the gaslight made sure one could work even in the night if it was necessary. Immediately I wondered if it had been such a good idea to accept to live there. I was given a large office room with a drawing table, a chair, a couch that would also serve as a bed and a cupboard for my private belongings - not that I had any except my mask and false nose.

I was given some second hand clothing from some charity foundation. That time I did not know but they were quite impressed with the story of the orphan who ran away from the circus to become a decent man. Well, the lie was too good not to believe them. They even invited me to go to church with them on Sunday morning. I did not want to. Certainly not. I hoped that Sunday would be a day I would be able to sleep all day long, but somehow I felt obligued to at least consider it because they really helped me. I was not sure why but I was grateful and felt I owed them something.

My first day in the office was a shock. The secretary - an elderly grey-haired man - pointed to a box full of paper and told me to begin with drawing the plans. I did not understand. "You are the technical drawer, aren't you?" he asked, "And this project has a deadline tomorrow at ten o'clock."

"Where is Monsieur Ferre?" I asked bewildered.

He sighed. "Not here. Obviously somewhere in the city trying to find more clients. As if we didn't already have more work than we can do, especially now that the archictect broke his arm and the technical drawer quit yesterday."

If I had really been an eighteen years old boy without any education and experience I would have run away now. But I was not. I was an experienced architect who had already worked for two kings - surely some client in a provincial city wouldn't be difficult. The project itself was not difficult. It was just about a renovation and expanding a slaughterhouse with a large flat for the butcher's family and an extra flat for his employees - they would have to share a room and sleep in bunk beds. There were sketches and notes about the specifications the client had given. They contained not even half of the information I needed for this.

With a sigh I began drawing the plans. First I took down what I assumed were the plans of the original building or at least close to that and then I began working on the rooms that had to be added. I used my own imagination and knowledge about calculations to fill the gaps. It wasn't hard to assume that I ought to use a design that was not beautiful but purely functional. A butcher surely would not pay for any ornaments but wanted something practical, easy to clean and cheap. Not knowing anything about the actual costs - I never had, in Persia and Turkey it was a "Money is not an issue-project". Here I would have to learn about calculations, costs for materials, for workers, for sub-contractors. But first things first, now I had to finish the plans. There was a deadline.

Madame Ferre brought me a pot with something she had cooked. It was only lukewarm now and I must have eaten it absent-mindedly without interrupting my work on the blueprints. I could here that Madame asked where Monsieur was and the secretary told her that he had not seen him that day. Madame complained loudely that her husband was not where he was expected to be and she had no idea and the deadlines... and I stopped listenting. Little did I know that I would hear that litany on regular basis from that day on.

I do remember working late into the night. The next morning I woke up, went to the stove to heat some water to prepare some tea. I was allowed to use a small metal pot for heating up water and I was allowed to take some of the tea from the small kitchen where usually tea and refreshments would be prepared for meetings with clients and whomever else.

The client came at a quarter to ten, Monsieur Ferre at a quarter past ten. According to the secretary this was normal.

"Where are the drafts?" Monsieur Ferre asked, clearly nervous not to find the architect and the technical drafter.

"You desk. By the way - the architect broke his arm and is unable to work and the technical drafter quit the day before yesterday. The new drafter you hired made the blueprints."

"New drafter? But...?" Obviously Monsieur Ferre didn't talk much with his secretary.

"Sir, did I do something wrong?" I asked, again taking the role of the nervous teenager I surely was not.

He studied the drafts. "They are not what I would have expected from someone who has not done this before. We will need to change them because you ignored some specifications from the client. But it is enough to present him a first draft. Come with me to the meeting, take notes and then you will correct them. And in the future, young sir, you will ask me before you do something. I am not paying you for wasting you time doing blueprints based on your fantasy and not the client's specifications!"

I stood there completely stunned, unable to say anything. I knew I was innocent of wasting time because he had not been there - how could I have asked him? I thought he might compliment me because I did very good work or at least show surprise, but he did not. He just took the plans and went into the meeting, calling over his shoulder: "Thorsson! Come with me and don't forget your notebook!"

In the meeting he introduced me as his assistant, whatever that meant. I sat there and took notes about the changes the client wanted. After that meeting Monsieur Ferre took me to his office and offered me a glass of wine. I accepted.

"You are neither eighteen nor inexperienced. You are either an architect or a master mason yourself and I suspect you to be my age," he told me, "Whatever you did to convince the magistrate that you were an unfortunate uneducated orphan - I call your bluff. Who are you really?"

I told him the same story I had told the magistrate - the truth. I told him that I was twentyseven or twentyeight and that I had already build for the Shah of Persia and the Turkish Sultan. And I told him that they wanted me dead so he would better not tell anyone about that.

He leaned back in his chair, studying me, which made me terribly nervous. Then he asked me to give him some sketches of the palace. I knew this could cost my life - if he believed me and somehow send a message to the Shah that I was alife, I am sure the Shah's assassins would have found and killed me in Belgium or anywhere I would go from there. That's why I refused but offered to design something else, to let him test my abilites. To give me another of his projects, this time giving me all the informations and even allow me to meet the clients and talk to them.

"I do not believe you that you build for kings in faraway countries. This sounds too fantastic. I think you were a master mason in another country and escaped after bankruptcy."

Yet another theory about my past I did not wish to deny. It was better if he didn't believe me. "Just don't tell anyone that I am not the boy they take me for," I begged. He winked at me. "I'd be a fool. I would have to pay you an adaequate salary for an architect if I did - so I can pay you as technikal draftsman. And you will be very grateful that you get paid at all."

I smiled at him. He was no fool. He knew that to him this was a chance to get an employee for one third the wages he'd have to pay any other with the necessary skills and he knew I could not complain without giving away that my new life was build on a lie.

What sounds like the worst possible beginning turned out the be the best that could ever happen to both of us for Monsieur Ferre gave me something I cherished much more than anything money could buy - he treated me as a colleague and friend. It was a small price for me to accept meager wages and long hours of work each day. What he did for me was invaluable - he introduced me into society in this provincial town. He forced me to accompany him to parties where he was invited, forced me to talk with clients, forced me to oversee building sites. To say he had to kick me every step out of the house would be an understatement. I hated to go out, I hated to be among people, but... it helped. With his help I slowly learned to find a place in life. I even had a small group where I felt I was welcome and that they even liked me. I fit in human society.

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 _Thank you for reading. This was supposed to be a one-shot but when it became much longer than expected I decided to cut it into three chapters. Maybe I will expand this story but that will be rather a series of loosely connected one-shots and not an ongoing fanfic. Would you like to read more about Erik being an honest man in that contracting enterprize? Please just leave a review._


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